OPORTO, 22nd May - The Seminary

"All it needs are a few tea-leaves and a pinch of gunpowder," Harris said, and swilled some round his mouth before spitting over the parapet and swallowing the rest. He held out the mug again, and poured water into the rifle barrel, swirling it round before pouring it out again.

Pye laughed.

"Just so." He said with a grin. "Never t' ferget t' add powder in it!"

Once he poured the second fill of water he waited only a moment to see if there was more needed before stepping back.

He then moved towards the next rifleman repeating the procedure of a water for the man and rifle. He looked towards the lieutenant and hesitated, feeling a fool not to have done it sooner.

"Sir, water, sir?" He asked holding the kettle which had enough of it in for a few refillings. It looked as though they might have to go fetch some more water, for all of the riflemen to be watered.

"Check your flints!"

Jaeger had been shouting and welcomed the offer of water.

"Thank you. When you were downstairs, did you see anyone bringing up more ammunition? How many rounds do you have left?"

"Yes, sir. Schraybuh's (Schreiber) bringing some up for our rifles." He poured the water into Jaeger's mug and lowered the kettle again.

"'bout..20 I think, sir." He added, sparing a glance at his cartridge box. He was slower at loading but didn't wish to waste a shot just because he was to hurry with firing.

It was easier to drag the heavy box up the ladder, with Schreiber pulling on the cords that fastened it. Breitmann, below, steadied the weight, and pushed, then took another step up after the other man. A final heave and they were out on the roof, where almost all the soldiers were in green, not the red they had seen below.

None of them was firing though, so Breitmann stood up as he reached the top of the ladder, and looked north, across the hummocky open space. There were more French soldiers there now, and it would not be long....

Schreiber was already dragging the box round, offering the prepared cartridges to each rifleman. Even the best shots had now used their specially milled powder, their leather patches, and were now re-filling their pouches. Breitmann had filled his down in the Seminary, and now resumed his place, nodding at the men on either side of him.

Edrington had gone to the roof to watch the French troops assemling to the north of the seminary. They were beginning to get organised, but apparently they had not thought to bring any guns round to that point. Or perhaps they had none left. From the west there was now nothing but silence, as the British battery had killed or dispersed all the French gunners who had been trying to halt the steady toing-and-froing of the barges.

In the garden, the 62nd were preparing for another assault from that side. Extra loopholes were battered through the garden’s northern wall. Sergeant Guthrie and Private Gormley - two big men - had manhandled a great pair of rain butts to the wall and propped the door of the garden shed across the barrels’ tops to make a fire step from which they could shoot over the wall’s coping.

[With acknowledgements to Bernard Cornwell, again]

Jeager heared a commotion behind him and turned to see the fresh cartridges arrive. He grinned and called over his shoulder: "Fill you bag, then!"

He raised his voice to call out over the roof:

"Check your flints! Clean your barrels! Fill your bags! The Frogs will come hopping again!"

Pye dug a hand in and had his catridge box topped full. A handful of ammunition had gone into a pouch and a pocket, ready to pass on, should the need arise.

He had some more water for his rifle and drink, and seeing that the other lad had completed the rounds so that all men had gotten their fill and their opportunity to clean their weapons, he began to walk to his own.

His mug filled, he hesitated. In his great eagerness he'd loaded the weapon before he had gone for the water and now, he needed to discharge it some place before the water could be poured down its barrel.

He took a sip gazing down at his Baker. Well, the flint was alright, there and in good shape at least.

He turned as a drumbeat sounded and saw the French were forming their ranks again, but this time only on the northern side of the seminary. “To your places!” he called.

[Courtesy of BC]

Well that solved the problem then. He just hoped it didn't prove itself to become a bigger one later. He set the mug down by his foot along with the kettle and moved in his earlier position. He could bring it down later, best not stand in the way at the worst moment.

The French were coming. Perhaps they've learned their lesson, though time might tell, how well.

Edrington moved forward to stand by the low parapet, behind which the riflemen were using the lull relax - or to clean their rifles, which for some seemed to be the same thing.

The young second lieutenant called them back to their duty, as the Pas de Charge was sounded on the French drums. He could see the columns begin to move and looked towards the young man. "Kind of them to give us time to have a drink."

Rifleman Waidmann watched his 2nd Lt. freeze and then woodenly turn toward the Colonel. Grinning he surveyed the enemy column to pick a target. Their officer kept a cool head in combat and could deal with the men well enough, but invariably lost all composture when speaking to senior officers.

A strangled "Yes, sir." was all their Lt. managed in response.

The French were coming closer, in range of the rifles, but still they kept out of the range of the muskets and would do so for a while. Good aim would decimate the lines, take their courage hopefully enough to send them fleeing again. Their ground was rather firmly set and defended. It was near impossible - he thought - to get into their 'fortress'. And that was as far as his thoughts on strategies went. More he busied himself in finding the right moment to fire, have his rifle unfouled, and then continue firing or have some of the ammo given to those that needed it.

He breathed in sharply and relaxed, gently petting his rifle. She was there to make sure he did something well. He smiled excitedly, not noticing how flustered lieutenant had seemed.

"Yes, sir."

Jaeger was in a quandary. Should he report that the French were advancing again? But the Colonel was neither dim witted nor blind, and would surely take him for a fool if he stated the obvious. Had he noticed something about the enemy, something that was worthy to report? Something was nagging him about the makeup of the advanciang column...

"They have found some ladders, sir."

"How very ... brave of them," Edrington said, looking at the distant blur of advancing figures. "In broad daylight, and with Rifles against them ... Even muskets would be enough." He really did not need to say it, but he added: "As soon as they are in range of the rifles, shoot the men with the ladders. Otherwise carry on."

Target the ones that stand out: the men in front; the men with the colours - or the eagle; the officers ...

They waited for the go ahead. Koch stood to the side, Weber further to the left and beside him his skirmish partner Braun. They were commenting the approaching army, and Braun was quick to point out what he believed would be a desirable target. Weber nodded in agreement, their conversation continuing in German, accented with the area they've come from.

Schreiber checked his rifle. It was clean and the barrel now dry and ready to be primed and prepared for its first shot. A last glance to be sure, and he began to load the fire weapon, a bit of powder into the pan, and the rest down the barrel. With a ball in a scrunched paper, following next, being rammed down as hard as it could go.

Pye flexed his fingers, gazing over towards the French. His rifle had been safely kept by the German, Koch and was now of course in hand, waiting to be shot. There was a mixture of Englishmen too. Palmer brothers and a few others he'd remembered the name of.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

Relieved to escape further conversation, Jaeger took a few steps to position himself behind his rifemen. Raising his voice he called out:

"Rifles! This order is for Rifles only! Fire at will! Pick your targets!"

The better shots were already lifting their rifles. None fired yet. They saw the distance, waited for their targets to come into range.

First fire was heard, spewing smoke and clouding the man's vision for a moment. It was closely followed by another. Weber and Braun. Then it was one of the British men. There was a stirring in the line across the field. The 95th were heard firing as well. Just as the 60th, their orders were given to fire at will, aim for the officers, aim for those carrying the ladders or colours.

Pye waited. A second shot was fired, Koch this time. The youth steadied himself, aiming for one of the men up closest to the front, holding a ladder. Learn from each shot. It was harder than testing it on a target where a result was more easily seen.

He fired and dropped the rifle after. The men kept on marching, and every so often one was picked, shuddered, fell, and men to his side would pick a ladder he had carried. Not too many seemed eager to volunteer for the task. Probably they knew they would become a clear target once they did.

Slipping away from the surgeon's waggon, where he had passed the night, was easier than Newbury thought it would be. It was well past time that he got back to the company anyway and what better time than just before a fight? His side felt much better, if he didn't try to twist too quickly. He didn't have his pack though, which was an annoyance. Hopefully whoever was carrying it for him hadn't gotten curious and rifled through the pack.

Newbury's return to the company passed, thankfully, mostly without notice. With the exception of Ben Jacklin - who was quick to comment playfully on how nice it was to have strangers in their midst - nobody paid him any mind. But that suited Newbury just fine. He was there to fight.

And at last the waiting was over. At Lieutenant Jaeger's shouted order, Newbury checked his flint one last time. There were a few scattered shots from other men in the company. He lifted his rifle and selected his target. A crack, an explosion of powder and flame, and the Frenchman he'd fired at twitched and fell. Newbury dropped to one knee and started to reload. This wasn't bad, but he hoped they would get into close quarters with the French. Nothing buoyed spirits like a field brawl.

This was something that Cotton was good at, and he knew he was - he'd proved it in front of pretty much the entire Second Division. He'd already picked his target when Jaeger gave his order, and he settled his rifle butt into his shoulder before pulling the flint back to full cock. He was thankful he'd changed the flint earlier as he aimed at a big burly Frog wearing the gold stripe that marked him out as a Sergeant.

He drew the trigger and the flint fell, enveloping him in white smoke. He thought he saw the Frenchman go down - he'd be surprised if he hadn't - but was already pulling another cartridge from his pouch to go through the loading procedure again.

Pye grinned. He'd seen a few of the riflemen fire - along with those, Newbury and Cotton - . As was expected , their targets, or atleast he thought that the men falling must've been theirs, fell under their fire. He had managed to get his rifle ready. It was an effort, greater than loading a musket. It took a while longer than it as well.

He lifted his rifle and chewed on his lip while he sought a target at which he might fire it. He'd been looking for officers as they've said, and for broader men, which would pose to be an easier target. Atleast then his firing might count, or he hoped it would.

He paused. The Frenchmen had gotten closer, and there was a cluster of them trying to heft a ladder up to have one of them carry it. More men bundled up together.

The boy took aim, and fired. There must've been one that fell! "Better turn, them! If them smart!"

"Takes a deal of fire to get the French to run," Cotton replied once he'd got his cartridge open. "You just aim at 'em like I showed you t'other day - go for the ones leadin'." He rammed powder, wadding and ball home and returned the ramrod before bringing the rifle back up to his shoulder and aiming at a French officer waving his sword around.

"But they ran like rabbits yesterday!" The youth nodded eagerly at the quick lesson. He was trying to aim just like that. And see if any of the balls went where they were meant to. He made sure of the amount of gun powder, so that there was neither too much, nor too little in the pan. He was doing just that too. Pan first, then powder in the barrel. Crunched paper and ball. Ramming it in was harder than the last time. His shoulder ached a little, where it was braced to take the impact of the fire. He'd leaned forward a little each time, and tried to secure the rifle, but its kick was still quite strong enough.

Koch and Weber both had powder stained faces, but worked with a proper efficiency. They all did a fine job, which made Pye swell with pride.

"Pull it right back into your shoulder," Cotton said, remembering his own first skirmish with a rifle. "You'll get a bruised shoulder, else." He reloaded, unable to spare more than a glance at the lad. He'd managed to get powder in his mouth and spat drily as he rammed the cartridge home.

The muskets were silent, waiting for the column to come into range. A hundred rifles, well aimed, might dent their enthusiasm, reduce their cohesion, and make them even more keen than usual to hide in the centre of the column, rather than try to catch their superior's eye by joining a scaling party.

Another ladder carrier dropped his end of the ladder, clutching at the arm that had been supporting its weight. This time there was a delay before a conscript came out from the column to join them, driven on by a Sergeant. Edrington watched Cotton. He had proved himself to be an excellent shot against a target, but that didn't always transfer to the field. Of course, sometimes the opposite was true, and a man needed a live target to do his best shooting.... But Cotton was hitting his targets here too, if Edrington could judge.

As were the other marksmen who had competed, even the boy Carty, as serious and mature as a man when he had a rifle in his hand, and a target in his sight.